Pitsen (Пицен)
by Mahmooda
Summary: What a masquerade you watched in the first two episodes of "Project Dawn"! The time to reveal the truth about Iman Zubedah has come. This is a story of a shape-shifting creature called Pitsen (Пицен) in Tatar mythology. This is a story of the rabbit and the hunters.
1. Prologue

_Why so silent, good MonsieursDid you think that I have left you for good?Have you missed me, good Monsieurs?I have written you an opera*Here I bring the finished score*'Don Juan Triumphant'_

[from the _Phantom of the Opera_ , Masquerade scene]

not quite an opera; perhaps a soap opera

not finished yet. Currently under edition. Again. I'm learning :-)

What a nice masquerade they have invited you to watch in the Project Down season... Now it is the time to rip some costumes off and tell you the M for blood, death, angst, wording and sex scenes – well, it's _Strike Back_. Kids, go to I do not own any of the fictional characters, but my shape-shifting Marie is mine.

This is a story of a shape-shifting creature called Pitsen (Пице́н) in Tatar is a story of the rabbit and the is a story of some relations between scientists and is a story of myths, archetypes, lullabies and fairy of this as a _Strike Back_ pottage.Приятного аппетита. ਬਾਨ ਏਪੇਤੀਤ. Noşî can be. Guten Appetit. Head isu. Bon appétit.

 **Prologue**

 _New Delhi, India, May 2009_

The car sped along the highway after the skilful driver manoeuvred through the crowded streets of Delhi. The wind was blowing in Iman's face through the half-open window, tugging at her hair and drying her lips. Good, it would dry the still damp stains of blood on her black dress.

Good, that the dress was black since the stains had formed only darker and lighter shades. At least nothing red flashed anywhere on her. The spots had been elsewhere, on so many other people–the soldiers, the wounded hostages, the dead bodies in the Royal Hotel Lotus. Iman had never seen so much fresh blood in her life. Now each time she closed her eyes the vivid patterns of various shapes surrounded her all around. A crimson stain from a single shotgun wound on the white blouse of the barmaid. Droplets splattered from Latif's blown up eyeball. Even the blowing wind could not stop the harsh smell of material death still filling her nose.

Last afternoon she put her simple but elegant dress on, willing to look good for the meeting with Major Jamal Ashkani. And, to be on the safe side, to appear as a person working for a cosmetics company in London should appear. The matching black shoes with heels, delicate golden necklace and earrings, rich bracelet, and the ring on her finger complemented this image. A light make-up and mascara on her lashes were the most difficult part to do with trembling hands. She had done her best to get her hair right, but well, as usual, it had a mind of its own.

She had expected the dress would serve as a mourning gown–black is what they wore for funerals in the Western world, wasn't it? They would put on white here in Delhi as a colour of grief, but black was much more practical, the blood-stain-proof black.

There would be many funerals after the beautiful Royal Hotel Lotus turned out into a battlefield. She blamed herself as she should have made this last move with more caution. How could she be again so naïve to trust in Pakistani intelligence services, any Intel at all, and let them choose the place? What possessed them to arrange this meeting in a luxurious hotel? Any desert would have been a better spot. At least no one would be dead, no one but herself. Yet, deep down in her heart, she suspected it was Zahid's idea; he had invented unusual rendezvous settings before. She had used Mahmood's name on purpose, hoping, that Zahid would identify her if he was still in this business.

Iman had arrived at the hotel in the morning. Her apprehension, growing with every passing hour, restrained her from enjoying the adorned restaurant or spa services. A glass of white wine in a bar was supposed to give her some relax, but a guy interrupted her with his clownish trial to bed her down. Soon after the bloody hell broke loose. Instead of having a dinner she was hiding from the men with shooting rifles. Afterwards, they dragged her through the hotel corridors all night long. She had tried to escape, but the terrorist called Latif caught her and threatened her life. He ended up with a hole in his head due to a perfect shot from sergeant Stonebridge's gun.

Iman had been tired in the evening before, but in the morning she was drained. Before leaving the hotel she only washed her face and hands. It was this soldier again, Stonebridge, who led her petrified body to the bathroom and commanded her to wash. Then he left and locked the door. The fresh water running through her fingers brought at least a trace of calmness to her frightened mind. She splashed water on her face and the mascara got blurred under her eyes. Superfluous care about appearance, but a touch of white soft towel removed the traces. Stonebridge came back within a short while. After this mad race through the hotel, he watched over her and brought her shoes back. When they walked out of this terrible place, his arm embraced her for a long while. Even though she was not used to relying on any man's arm, it helped as a support not only to her weakened body, but also to her stunned mind.

The bright rays of rising sun dazzled her eyes when they left the shaded lobby, but again Stonebridge's hand came to her aid. While walking out of the building she timidly looked at the chaotic movements of the people. Soldiers and police officers were striving to impose order and guided the rescued hotel clients beyond the dangerous zone, medics were looking for wounds to bind up. At the same time, the fearful questions were swirling around in Iman's head. Where would they take her? What story should she tell the Brits?

Stonebridge led Iman to the group of few people standing outside the hotel. The shivers went up her spine when she saw Zahid there. After these six years he still was so handsome. He had shorter hair now, and had maybe gained a few pounds, but the same considerate smile highlighted his nonchalance. Iman understood at once he was waiting there to take her. It must have been risky as hell, but who would expect such an exposed action when everything was at a stake?

'These are friends,' said Stonebridge. 'Colonel, this is Iman Zubedah.'

'Doctor, I'm Colonel Grant, British Military Intelligence.'

Iman shook her hand. A woman in charge of this squad, impressive.

'This is Major Ashkani, Pakistani ISI. He's here to guarantee your safety,' said Colonel.

'I'm so sorry we missed our appointment,' said Zahid, scrutinising Iman's appearance, and extended his hand towards her.

'Me too,' she answered.

'Please. We should let the medics check you over. Come, it's okay.' Zahid continued to play a gentleman and led her to an ambulance.

Once Iman got in his car she furtively removed the ring from her finger and kept it in her fist, trusting it would work as she had expected. She tried not to let out any sign of despair, but her hands were still shaking. Iman Zubedah had no doubt that her rabbit-like zigzag escape route would soon come to an end on this day, born out of the bloody red dawn.


	2. Chapter 1

_**Edinburgh, Scotland, April 2002  
**_

 _Marie,_ _you should_ _run_! She sped up her walk past the Waverley Station. Her body resisted to boost already shallow breath and rushed heartbeat. Her mind resisted as well, two minutes more made no difference. Starbucks manager would rile up at her anyway.

The earthbound Angie would not understand the urge to hike the Arthur's Saddle top, risking late arrival to work. This morning the sunlight perforated a cloud cover and the sanguine rays teased Marie to climb, then sit for a while on an icy rock and admire a far-reaching view. The sharp wind dried her lips and ruined her hairdo, but also dispersed the post-interview distress. Then she got lost on meandering paths on her way down, as always.

A few minutes later Marie lowered her head and zigzagged through the Starbucks space. Luckless to sneak into the cubicle without being noticed, she faced the expected welcome.

"Marie, you're late! Again, for God's sake!"

"Sorry, I missed the earlier train from Newcastle."

"And that's an excuse?"

Marie donned her most apologetic face expression. "I am truly sorry, Angie."

"You've been working here for three months, you know the rules. It's my last warning." Angie pointed her finger at Marie. "You take Saturday's afternoon tomorrow. And the next one too."

"Sure, no problem!" A plastic grin appeared on Marie's face when she buckled her apron. What a blessing, the most hated shift. Angie rolled her eyes and left, Marie glanced at the mirror to confirm her hair was a complete mess. Where's the goddam hairbrush? Not in her backpack, pity.

A more friendly face emerged from the door.

"Hello Mona!" said Marie.

"Here you are," said Mona and passed her an elastic band. "I missed you."

"You're my saviour!" said Marie and pecked her friend's cheek. Gentle, supportive and well-organised Mona.

"I hoped you'd take my shift next Sunday, but now..." said Mona.

"For you, always!"

"Thanks! It's Bobby's seventh birthday, you know. But don't you have plans with Ed?"

"Not anymore, I moved out last Tuesday."

Mona wrung her hands. "What? You were doing well together for months!"

"Not well, indeed," said Marie and shrugged. "He needs a girl who can do more in the kitchen than unfreeze a pizza. And I got fed up with his groaning."

"I'm sorry to hear this."

"Don't be sorry, I'm fine. Except I sleep in a hostel."

Angie peeked through the door. "Girls, there's a queue!"

"Coming!" they answered in unison and rushed to their tasks. Mona at the cash register, Marie operated the coffee machine. At least she did not need to simper all the time.

Hours of humming grinders and hot handles. Removed grounds, refilled holder, tamper. Large cappuccino topped with rosette, _voilà_. No chance to admire the view of the Castle Hill for longer than a second. Next one? One espresso, fine.

A coffee with a proper crema was an essential part of Marie's lifestyle. But not for this she had left her home. Not for coffee she had survived three years with a meagre scholarship from her country to complete a PhD in nuclear physics at the University of Edinburgh. She had endured ignorant questions like 'Krakozhia? Where the hell is that?' or 'Do you know what jeans and rock-and-roll are?'. People often assumed she had been a Russian citizen which irritated her even more. This was why she had invented Marie. She liked the French spelling of this name, simple and pronounceable, unlike her baptismal one.

Pump murmured to produce these 9 bars of water vapour. Milk jug, hissing steam, then perfect latte macchiato layers appeared in a high glass. Light years away from peeping at alpha, beta and gamma particles. Her beloved detectors and energy spectra were elsewhere. Ed had become a history, but this was a relieving factor. He had never understood her passion for labwork, her yearning for discovery.

Doubtful, that any normal guy would keep up with a girlfriend of her kind. A weirdo who spent weekends and evenings in the laboratory. Who cared more about a liquid nitrogen cooling for her spectrometers than home meals. Who tapped away on her notebook at night instead of satisfying man's desires. Who repeated 'Just a moment!' screening her calculations for hours rather than join the party. Who forgot the connections of her boyfriend's family, anniversary dates, and even his birthday.

One latte caramel more and she would be free for today. She took a brownie-to-go for herself instead of a dinner. Economy, diet and pleasure at once.

Marie and Mona left their workplace in the afternoon. A dose of fresh moist air replaced the coffee and milk smell as they walked to the bus stop.

"Tell me, how was your interview?" asked Mona.

"As usual, friendly smiles, 'Thank you for your application,'" answered Marie. "And 'Good publications,' but they noticed I have tits, you know."

"So what? Nice tits can help."

"Not in academia, my dear. Tits make physicists uncomfortable. These guys have three more applicants, all native and tits-less, with zero chance to get pregnant. No need to be a prophet to know they won't call me with good news."

"You're being too pessimistic, Marie."

"You'd be the same after three rejections, believe me."

Mona grasped Marie's hand. "Look at you, your rosettes are masterpieces!"

"Yeah, at least I make a good coffee. Great."

"Chin up! Things must get better, I'll pray for you."

"Thanks, but God has more serious problems than my PostDoc," said Marie. "Hey, there goes your 25. See you on Monday!"

"Take care!" said Mona and gave Marie a quick hug, then she jumped into the bus.

Mona would soon drown in her sweet home duties. Marie visited her twice to witness how three kids produced a continuous disorder, loads of laundry and the acoustic intensity level above any standards. And how her husband spent weekends on angling, then came back home tired, dirty and hungry. Just one more kid to take care of.

Marie relished the rainless weather phenomena and strolled the Princes Street Gardens until she found a quiet place near The Royal Scots Monument. She dried off a piece of a bench to sit and took out Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' from her backpack. Good reading should let her go astray, but it did not happen this time. The letters quivered in front of her eyes, the sentences lost their messages. She slapped the book pages, stretched her legs and shoved her hands into the pockets.

Perhaps the roots and tits had not been an issue, she might have been simply not good enough for a PostDoc. Deficient in the determination and talent of Madame Curie, and lack of Pierre by her side. Should she follow an advice 'You'd better go home, woman.'? She sensed these unspoken words in the atmosphere of yesterday's meeting, and in the previous ones. Next time she would declare she was a sterile lesbian who had vowed a celibacy. Maybe this would help? Just one more try.

She gathered her backpack and strode along the alley towards the stone monoliths of the monument. The Scots were crazy about soldiers, the whole garden was full of memorials. She read the inscription. _It is not for glory nor riches, neither_ _it is_ _for honours_ _that_ _we fight, but it is for_ _the sake of_ _liberty alone, which no true man loseth, but at the cost of his life._

How strange, Marie's memories about soldiers were opposite, although only flashbacks from a small girl's world remained in her head. Her country's citizens manifested against the economic sanctions and called for the freedom of media. They had been confronted by people in uniforms, who held arms and fired them at the crowd. The case was investigated, and the military authorities claimed the real ammunition was issued instead of blanks by mistake. They found a scapegoat guilty of the deaths and sent him off to prison, but nobody believed the story.

Well, at least the most spectacular tribute in Edinburgh was built for the writer. _What would you say, Sir Walter?_ she thought as she passed the Scott Monument. _You must have been open for immigrants to marry your Charlotte. I bet you liked her everlasting French accent_.

####

Later this evening Marie opened her laptop in a hostel common room where a few people watched BBC news. A glimpse at the TV screen was enough to see nothing good had happened to the world since yesterday. She logged in to check emails. Thank God, the second round of reviews for her manuscript arrived! They took three months, and now what? Marie scrolled through the 54 critique points. Damn it, major revision, again? She moaned, cringed her body and laid her head on a table. _Decapitate me, anyone._

A group of school kids arrived and spread around the room like buzzing flies. They changed the channel to MTV, and the beats and blinks led Marie to a headache. She needed a dramatic decrease of noise and increase of privacy, or she would never correct the paper. A quiet room to let was a must, but this day she got only two negative answers from affordable places.

Would at least a quantum of solace be in her inbox? An offer to earn a million pounds next week, spam. A simple way to amaze your baby tonight, spam. 'A job in a field of your qualifications' might have been a more fancy spam, but the sender's domain was the King's College London. She opened the text. It contained a laconic invitation for an interview and contact details of Prof. Stephen Brightman from the KCL Department of Physics.

Marie typed the name into Google and discovered his name on a KCL employees list. Within a few minutes of surfing their webpage, she learned the research focus of this Department was not aligned with her experience. The last time she had read about biophysics, photonics and nanomaterials was during her graduate course.

What an awkward mistake. _Well, let's show mercy and inform Professor about it_ , she thought. She typed a polite answer and attached her CV. The reply came after half an hour, then astonished Marie arranged a meeting for the next week. No doubt Angie would be delighted to hear a request for a free day again.

####

 _ **London, UK, April 2002**_

Prof. Brightman welcomed Marie into a small room filled to the ceiling with a clutter of books, and stacks of students' works. Spare electronic circuit boards and cables scattered on the shelves and a few empty mugs by the computer on his huge desk completed the natural appearance of a professor's office. His old-fashioned jacket also met the expectations one might have about a high-ranking member of the scientific staff.

The style of the woman who accompanied the Professor was far from that of a scientist. A neat outfit and combed blond hair were complemented by black high-heel shoes. They shined, and subtle grey stripes on their sides matched the colour of her suit.

"Good morning," she said. "I'm Julia Evans from administration." They shook hands and Julia opened a paper folder. It contained Marie's extended CV on the top of a pile of other sheets.

 _Julia is so damn elegant, but I am not that bad_ , thought Marie. A navy jacket and white shirt formed an outdated look but in line with the scientific interview dress code. Wear something formal, have a modest neckline, don't give them a reason to look there. Okay, they would glance here and there, but they should see nothing to make them uncomfortable. Thus never ever wear heels. Discreet makeup was allowed, so Marie used a slight amount of mascara. If only the perfect kohl lines on Julia's eyelids had not been so magnetising, she would have felt more comfortable. But who would bother about the interviewee's well-being?

"Would you tell us about your doctorate project, please?" asked Professor. His lively grey eyes below a thinned dark hairline showed a friendly curiosity.

"With pleasure, Professor," Marie answered and declaimed her speech. Professor nodded and asked questions, slightly touching the topic of ionising radiation detectors.

Julia's actions increased Marie's anxiety. The lady was silent but attentive and jotted down notes all the time. They spent a half an hour on something that resembled a relaxed conversation, not an in-depth interview. A discomposure in Professor's behaviour passed on Marie and she fidgeted on the chair. Either this seat was scratchy or she was allergic to the cheapest washing powder.

The Professor glanced at Julia and gained a nod. "I think we have learned all we need. Thank you for coming, we appreciate it."

"It was my pleasure, Professor, Mrs Evans," answered Marie with a surprised smile. Her eyes darted between their faces.

"We will contact you next week concerning the outcome," said Julia and closed her notebook.

"Of course," said Marie. At least this was a standard way. "Thank you for the invitation."

When she left this unusual interview, she realised they mentioned nothing about the job offer itself. They also did not ask about her fiancée or plans to have children. What the hell, had they wanted to chat and dragged her from Edinburgh?

At least they refunded the travel, so she went to see her beloved 'The Phantom of the Opera' musical once more. The performance was overwhelming, even from the economy seat high above the scene at Her Majesty's Theatre. She travelled back to Scotland accompanied by John Owen-Jones' enchanting voice singing songs in her head.

####

"She appears to be suitable for the job you want to offer," said Prof. Brightman when the candidate had left the office.

"I'm not sure yet, I need to consult this," Julia answered as she scanned her notes.

"She has the best research profile of all five applicants, how many more do you want to interview? I'm only wasting my time on your games, instead of doing my work!"

 _Best profile, shit, that's my intuition,_ he thought. If only he learned more about those detectors, it would be less problematic. He needed to get rid of this crap as quickly as possible.

"Let me remind you of the photos with your sweet friend Danni, which your wife should not like to see," Julia said with a cunning smile on her face.

The Professor rolled his eyes. How long was he going to pay for losing himself in the pleasures of Danni's arms? And her lips, and her wonderful breasts, and the perfect curves of her derrière. When Julia collected her stuff and left, Professor's thoughts wandered off to the unresolved problem if it was worth it or not.

Julia Evans headed to the lift to leave the 7th floor of KCL Strand building. Danni's tricks did a good job.

There had always been a Danni working for Julia's department at 85 Vauxhall Cross. The faces had changed down through the years, but the name was consistent, so the insiders knew how Danni served. She delivered a cheerful little flirt, romantic kisses or hot sex, whatever was needed to seduce a journalist, a political figure, or a professor. Then she delivered the records. Officially Danni was employed in medical support, she was skilled in dosing medicines, injections and bandaging. Occasionally it facilitated her actual missions.

 _She's a foreigner and a woman_ , thought Julia in a crowded lift. _She has no relatives except a brother far away, convenient._ _Strange accent, well settled common sense, but she's impulsive and naïve_ _at the same time_ _. This may be risky, or could we turn it into a plus? She looks good, but too young. Let's see what we can do about it._

####

The next day the blue colour dominated the Scottish sky and even Angie smiled twice. The traffic at Starbucks lowered for a while and Marie leant against the counter with an espresso cup in her hand.

"How did you survive a day without me?" she asked Mona, who placed a pile of printed paper scraps under scrutiny.

"We struggled to make ends meet, honey. How was it in London?"

Marie glowered. "Weird. Looked like this kind of joke with hidden cameras."

"Do scientists ever joke?" Mona blinked, and they both chuckled.

"Not at this level, I suppose," said Marie.

"Any prospects for a job?"

"Forget it, Mona. It must have been a stupid mistake and this Professor just wanted to save his face."

Marie's mobile vibrated in her pocket. Unrecognised number, strange. She looked around and found no trace of Angie, so she ran to the lavatory and accepted the call. Julia Evans invited her for the second meeting.

####

Professor Brightman left his office for lunch break and she talked with administrative officer alone. Julia's spruced up look made her yearn again for eyeshadows and mascara, perhaps even a lipstick. After a while, Julia came to the point and Marie's eyes opened wide.

"Holy hell, a spying mission? In which outlandish country?"

"I cannot tell you the location now. But it is a strict scientific position, you would simply need to inform us about the work in progress. In confidence, naturally."

"And it's not a joke, right?"

Julia passed a printed sheet to Marie. "Would I joke about the contract conditions like this?"

Marie raised her brew. The salary was breath-taking. After these two years she could buy a small house with garden, or have a luxury travel around the globe, or even both. She gripped her teeth and put the paper on the table, then took a deep breath and looked straight in Julia's anticipating eyes.

"I respect your labour to save world's peace," she said, "but I have to refuse this offer."

Julia's voice stayed undisturbed. "I know it isn't what you have expected. I understand you may need time to consider your answer."

"I don't think I will change it."

Julia gathered the pages and handed them to Marie. "These are the basic settings I told you about and a draft contract. Please keep it confidential, have a look later and call me. Let's say, in three days, okay?"

####

Marie threw the papers onto the corner of her desk in a tiny room. Two days before she moved in this flat shared with two other girls. The place was noiseless and reasonably priced, but she had to pay the rent for two months in advance, which made her shopping list dramatically shortened.

Marie had no heart for politics. She had promised herself not to get involved in things that brought only destruction to her life. It was enough to lose her parents in the Umayev revolt in 1985 when her country was being raised by the onslaught of Soviet domination. The revolt had been followed by a painful and still lasting transformation towards an independent democratic state. So painful, that sporadically Krakozhia was unrecognised on the international list of sovereign states. Then the travellers had terrible problems and ended up stuck at airports with invalid passports.

Perhaps her parents' discussions of ionising particles of low energies and anti-coincidence corrections held at home even during their meals had not been common domestic disputes, but she had not known of this as a child. Perhaps her playground in the laboratory where she used pieces of dry ice, which bubbled in water and released a slithering smoke in the 'devil's kitchen' was far from the norm for the activities of a child, but they were happy.

The next morning Marie sat by the desk and sipped her black dense coffee. She glimpsed at the mischievous documents and snorted, but her curiosity overcame the swither. She reached for the papers. Damn the salary, the Great Canyon trip had to wait for better times. The isotopes, spectrometers, self-adsorption corrections and all this lab stuff was tempting, but her mouth fell open when she read the bottom page.

Julia had been an ignorant moron by not mentioning the essence.

Diamonds.

With a flush of adrenaline tingling through her body she called Julia's number right away.

12


	3. Chapter 2

**_London, UK, April 2002_**

Marie moved to London in a rush to start the arrangements for her future job. They gave her a new identity with a pronounceable name and a life story tailored to the task.

Her first false passport had been issued for Iman Zubedah, a British citizen born in London. Produced on request from the Secret Intelligence Service, with all the background story of her family with Pakistani roots: Daddy Ramizz–a textile factory owner, mum Alia–a general practitioner and two cute younger brothers, in their databases. It was annoying to get those extra years of life to prove her experience in Centronic and Micron Semiconductors companies. However, she admitted this made her CV much more attractive for Dr. Abdul Quadeer Khan, the leader of the Pakistani nuclear science development project.

While learning the details about the persona of Dr. Iman Zubedah who they have invented for her, she also created her own small stories. Drafting them in a paper notebook was like child's play to unleash her imagination, understand Iman and live her life. Shifting to her new shape she buried her true, given name deep into her memory, convinced that its revelation would bring nothing good to her or her brother and his family.

The preparations also included visits to the companies Iman had supposedly worked for and attempts to get rid of her strange accent - which seemed to stretch for ages. Plus the boring courses she named 'who to speak to and about what', which Julia's assistant organised for her. She was not able to remember her own phone number - why should she keep it in her brain? It is not a junk container. On the other hand, getting her bank card blocked because of forgotten PIN had been more problematic. Now she had to learn the codes to contact and identify the liaison officer. It was such a struggle to memorise those rows of words, letters and numbers. They did not let her take notes on anything.

The most interesting part of the preparations she expected to have with Prof. Brightman, to make a speedy study of her fabricated knowledge and experience. It was not funny to discover his expertise in ionising radiation detectors was much lower than her own.

"For them, we are all the same, a physicist is just a physicist," he shrugged.

"Well… OK then, but what shall we do now, Professor?" Iman asked. She doubted this explanation of her supposed-to-be tutor, but was too confused to ask why the hell he had approved this training.

The Professor sipped cold tea from a mug decorated with small elephants.

"We study together. At first, you brief me on what you learned, then we revise the literature."

"Sure." She passed him a printed page. "I have checked in EBSCO, ISI WoK, Inspec databases and there is not a lot about diamond detectors, it is still a pioneering work."

The Professor smiled. „See, you have made a perfect start."

At least the girl was smart, so this adventure had a good chance of ending up a success. And he would negotiate another date with Danni. As a reward this time, no doubt he deserved it. The burning memory of things Danni could do with her lips distracted him from ionising radiation detectors for a second, but he pacified his fantasies and got back to work.

They spent the whole afternoon reading and discussing the papers in the light of the vague information they had about the requirements for Iman's future employment. They had switched off the computers at almost 9 pm.

"Professor, can I be honest with you?" Iman asked. "Do you think we're being observed here?"

He winked at her. „No one can be sure these days."

"I think it may not be a job about fuel for nuclear power plant reactors or sources for gamma density measurements. It's hazy, but first, the list of radioisotopes to be measured…"

"Dr. Zubedah, in my opinion, this list is much too long to make such far-reaching conclusions. Look, the first one is americium 241, what's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, it is used for calibration and I know it is even here." Iman pointed at the smoke detector mounted on the ceiling. „But this lab is a strange unit, not a direct PAEC department. Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission." She explained the abbreviation noticing the Tutor's incomprehension. Once more.

"Oh, peculiar, well then…" He frowned and remained silent for a while.

Iman sighed. If she had expected any support, this was not the best place to find it.

"You're a scientist, Dr. Zubedah, I think you should do your job and report what they want," Professor said. "Just be careful and get back home safely."

####

Iman decided not to leave her doubts like this. She asked Julia a few direct questions, while all the time admiring the fitted curves of a light grey suit with dark blue accessories in the back of her mind. Her intuition was right–they did not tell her everything. Julia was not surprised, but even content and as an answer, Iman received a thin cover marked „Classified" with red capital letters. It was over Iman's head, but the colour of enamel on Julia's nails matched the colour of the font, and so did her lipstick.

"Have a look. That's all we have acquired."

Iman browsed all the printed sheets and her eyes opened wide in astonishment.

"Holy shit, this may be a concept of–"

"Of what?" asked Julia.

"Just a moment, please." Iman returned to the first page and focused on the report.

Julia was curious if Iman's answer would align with the expert evaluation she had in her files. Yes, this was a test and it would be good if she passed. The second candidate was a waste of time. He recognised the target, but the clue comes next. The guy almost pissed his pants and pretended not to see what was inside. Fortunately, he was engaged with a girl from a monied family, so Danni was again busy to secure his silence. If things with scientists progressed this way they would need to employ a squad of Dannies. With Iman Danni's charm would not work, but there was a "Plan B" prepared.

Anyway, time was of the essence now, the Middle East kettle was again heating up to the boiling point. Things in Iraq went nasty under Saddam's continued power. "Operation Southern Focus" was being launched and the number of bombings targeted at Iraqi installations would increase soon. The weapon of mass destruction supplies in Iraq were still a matter of see-saw diplomatic discussions.

The UN and IAEA had commissioned an expert mission to check Iraq nuclear activities and uranium stocks, but it would take months before they were allowed inside and could issue any document. As you might expect, a myriad of words would form a set of long complicated sentences, from which a few lines of conclusions might be extracted. The first one on this list is always a need for further investigation. Yes, scientists… Julia was used to these long-winded booklets as a part of this job, though not her favourite one. There had also been signs that CIA was checking Nigerian uranium suppliers - they would be as enthusiastic to share the reports as usual.

Pakistan was not an oasis of calm with the nuclear weapon programme. Since their first tests in 1998, they had significantly progressed in PAEC led by Dr. Abdul Quadeer Khan. Throughout his bright scientific career in Pakistan, Dr. Khan had been kept under careful surveillance – ever since he had stolen enrichment technology from Urenco in the Netherlands.

The same Dr. Khan, suspected for weaving the business proliferation network, was engaged with the biggest players. Iran, Libya and North Korea couldn't wait to grab their shopping baskets full of atomic bombs. Why not Iraq? Saddam may not be wholehearted friends with Musharraf, but business was a business. CIA claimed they control Khan, but this might not be as stable as they say.

The second nuclear fellow, this eccentric and religious Dr. Mahmood still messed around pretending to sit quietly on his ass in Islamabad. He wrote books about science and Islam after he had been forced to take an early retirement from PAEC in '99. The guy was smart, unpredictable and had good PR in Pakistan.

He stuck to his guns discussing only charity drives last year in Afghanistan. Sure, with his openly expressed attitude towards the proliferation of nuclear weapons among his Islamic brothers. A leader of a non-profit charity _Ummah Tameer-e-Nau_ had a chat with Osama in Kandahar about rebuilding educational institutions and hospitals, just before September 11th.

Under pressure from the USA, Mahmood had been arrested in November last year and questioned. He had never entered a guilty plea. Even the Pakistani ISI with CIA backup had no means to hold him for long and released him a month ago. Khan was a problem but was an exposed figure. He needed to mind every step and every word. Mahmood moved underground. They seemed to maintain a mutual antipathy, but nobody fucking knew if they would cooperate or compete.

SIS was not a sleeping beauty, had Intel watching and kept its resources at an operational level. Everything was ready if any firm action was demanded by the higher-ups - but there were no orders except this performance with WMD. Still, nothing has been mentioned about any connections of Pakistan with Iraq in official notes. Good, this made Major Eleanor Grant's dealings with Colonel Akmal Ramiz from Pakistan so damn top secret.

For God's sake, at least they could have been more creative in designing the name of this operation. Planting WMD in Iraq, if the commissions found no dangerous illicit stocks to justify the military action, they called it "Trojan Horse"! Unimaginative, but well, Eleanor, offish butch in those men-like clothes had always been short-sighted. Perfect for this task, wasn't she? They let her go on with the poisonous gases, and add her fibril to this yarn to make up one more layer of a cloth called the "Operation Mass Appeal". If only this damn Scott Ritter kept his mouth shut!

The nuclear stuff went another way. This strange workshop appeared out of the blue five months ago and it took a lot of effort to locate there someone suitable. _We must see what's going on there and we need it soon,_ thought Julia.

Meanwhile, Iman had identified solved equations and a few conceptual sketches in the report. Linking this to SIS's need for a spy the question was not challenging.

"Fission reaction of americium, this is clear," Iman said. „Element close to plutonium, the one used in weapons… I expected it would be needed to calibrate the diamond spectrometers, but here they made a model and tests for its three isotopes definitely not for calibration. They want a source of energy. They want a weapon, right?"

"It looks like," Julia said, still expecting more conclusions.

"I am not an expert, but if it works," Iman scrolled through the pages again, "this would be a new concept. I have never heard of mixing americium with plutonium. It must be an advanced technical upgrade, might even be a revolution if they make the process more efficient. Though I do not understand why they add americium…"

 _Good answer, Iman,_ thought Julia. This part was clear. _But they would check her and we must make sure she passes. With this loquacity, she needs more effective training. And we need to organise a suitable test for her_ , thought Julia looking straight into Iman's eyes.

It was not the first time Iman had felt that Julia's acute sight could penetrate the deepest parts of one's mind. She wondered what the hell Julia was searching for while Iman had put everything on a plate, no secret games.

"Can I make a copy of this? I'd like to study it later," Iman pointed to the files. Julia rolled her eyes to comment this reckless inquiry.

"Out of a question. You will work only here on this subject, we'll give you the proper resources…"

"With all due respect, but Prof. Brightman–" Iman said. This is serious, they should know his expertise is rubbish.

"… and somebody appropriate to train you. But you must continue your chats with Brightman and never mention the weapon again to him, is this clear?"

"Clear..." So they heard everything, great. And Brightman was a cover for the true mission. _Damn it_ , Iman thought, _if they engage a secret cover to hide the second bottom, maybe there is a third one_?

At this moment there was only one choice for her perplexed mind–apply Scarlett O'Hara's advice. Think about it tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 3

_The edited version, updated on 16th July 2017.I still long for a beta-reader…_

 _ **London, UK, April 2002**_

Four days after the revelations about the weapon had been disclosed to Iman, she was rushing to Prof. Brightman's office. She dragged her stuffed backpack and held several printed pages about radiation hardness.

She crammed into a lift, still absorbed in her reading, and followed the students as they left. Arriving at the doors she had supposed lead to the Professor's room, she realised she was not in the right place. The name on the doorplate was different, the corridor was different and the posters on the walls had titles she could not comprehend. She looked around with a startled face. As usual, the corridors with many doors were problematic for her poor sense of direction.

"Hello, you look lost," said a young man, who arrived with the same group of students.

"Well, it seems so… I was on my way to the Department of Physics," said Iman.

"And you found a way to the Department of War Studies, 6th floor. Physics is on 7th."

"Great!" she said and sighed with resignation.

"I'm also afraid it's not the right building. We're in King's and you need Strand."

"Sweet Jesus, I'll switch on my GPS!" She rolled her eyes and turned back in the direction where she expected to find the lift. "Thanks!"

"The lift is over there," the guy grinned pointing out the opposite way.

"Thanks again!"

She took off in the correct direction. _Nice boy, and you're such a sad sack_! she thought entering the lift. It went down to the ground floor first and then stopped on every level, of course. She had already suspected that the lifts were with intent acting against her. Malicious things!

####

"Your application was accepted in Lahore," said Julia in the afternoon meeting. They had organised a discreet leverage to support Iman's proposal, and it was successful.

"Good news then," said Iman.

"The laboratory is an independent unit," Julia continued. "Governed by a foundation sponsored by business and anonymous millionaires. This is not your big concern, but the manager is…" Julia pretended to check the name in her notes. "Yes, Mr. Kenneth Bratton. He has signed your contract. We sped up the training, here's your new schedule. You leave in two weeks. Questions?"

'Not really…'  
The news had sufficiently bewildered Iman. Nuclear weapon research requires enormous funding. What nice millionaires would spend their money on science? They could buy their next golden Rolls-Royce or gamble in casinos. Are they patriots wishing to strengthen their country's arsenal? Unbelievable.

And two weeks? Her training had been planned for two months! She glanced at the schedule–all days and evenings full of work. Damn, no time for West End shows, even though she was so close to the theatres. And some points surprised her.

"Beauty salon? Am I going to take part in a Miss Pakistan contest?" she raised her brew.

"To get tanned, our expert says you need it to improve your appearance," said Julia. _Though a manicure would do no harm_ , she added in her mind.

"Don't you know UV radiation causes premature ageing, wrinkles, and cancer?"

"Do you wish to withdraw?" Julia asked holding back the urge to chuckle. More objections against UV than the nuclear weapon?

"No way, I'm going."

Sacrifice and get a few wrinkles. The salary was well above university payrolls, so she would shop for this anti-ageing stuff from the cosmetics companies.

For God's sake, the diamonds were waiting! The phenomenal isolators brought to semiconductor state by a tiny amount of impurities. Chemically inert, with this delightful large band gap of 5.5 eV. Low intrinsic leakage currents meant no need for liquid nitrogen, what a blessing! Oh, just wonder what energy resolution, what FWHM you can reach, so many discoveries to come!

Iman had passed by the guy from King's 6th floor two or three times since then and he had always said 'Hello' with this charming smile. Late one afternoon she was again facing the lift's door. As it opened, she saw him nonchalantly leaning against the wall and typing a text on his BlackBerry mobile.

"Hi, where do you wish to go now?" he asked fastening the belt of a bag across his slim chest clothed in the dark blue T-shirt he was wearing along with relaxed jeans.

"I'd like to leave this place, which button is it, sir?" she joined his joke with a smile. He pressed the ground floor button.

"I'm Jerry Smith," he said.

"Iman Zubedah," she said with a slight hesitancy and they shook their hands. It was the first time she introduced herself in a real world using this name. Well, she needed to be more attentive during these 'who to speak to and about what' lessons.

"So you study physics, right?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm finishing my PhD and I have consultations with Prof. Brightman." She lied smoothly this time. What a relief–but she would rather change the topic.

"And you? Why study war when you could study physics just one floor up?"

"To understand it better and learn more about the mechanisms, the reasons, the triggers. I've always been fond of reading about battles… Then we may mitigate the adverse impact somehow."

"You mean you can eventually eliminate war? Sounds like something from Lennon's dream. Imagine all the people…" She used a defiant tone on purpose, but he showed no sign of unbalance.

"Yeah, that is what I often hear." A quizzical smile appeared again on his face. "But the answer is no, the war will never be over. Look at the history of our wonderful humankind, what did you learn at school? Wars, conflicts, crusades."

"Well, that's true," she said.

"Peace is not a natural state for humans," said Jerry.

"This is terrifying! People want to live in peace. At least most of them."

Jerry shook his head. "There's no democracy in war, Iman."

Her mobile rang when they got out of the lift.

"Sorry, I need to answer this," she said. "Yes, Julia?… Cancelled? Okay, thanks… I'll be there tomorrow, sure."

The surprise manifested on her face–she had been granted a free evening! The unexpected illness of her English teacher might give her time to get some relaxation.

 _This is going to be an interesting chat_ , thought Jerry as Iman was making her brief phone talk, and the girl herself was interesting. Not this kind of babe with a painted face and nails and no chance for a normal conversation, like the one he had met on a blind date a week ago.

Iman was slightly shorter than himself, ebony hair framed her face down to the shoulders. Her brown eyes with sparkles showed intelligent curiosity. Fitted blue jeans and a casual checked shirt in shades of green covered a nicely shaped body. It had been worth wandering for almost an hour around this bloody lift waiting for her.

"Come on, let's find a fish and chips nearby!" Jerry broke the moment of indecision.

"Great! Honestly – I'm starving!" After a whole day in a hurry she had filled her stomach with an apple a few hours before, so she was keen on having a good meal.

"And you'll tell me more about this mitigation. How do you do it?"

"I think there is only one way, through diplomacy," said Jerry.

"Oh, diplomacy… Means talking and talking, I was rather interested if there was any science in these war studies? I suppose you use statistical models for predictions, don't you?" she asked.

"Sure we do, but without this talking, it has no effect in life," said Jerry. "It's the same as knowing physical formulas, but what matters is how you make use of them."

 _Yeah, I know, it's like making a bomb when you're a nuclear physicist_ , she thought but kept her lips tight.

They found a nice spot within a few minutes' walk and continued a talk about the science of the war, ways of mitigation and the power of negotiations while scoffing down traditional fried food. He also told her how he was planning to apply for a position in a foreign affairs office to kick off his diplomatic career after the defence of his PhD. While listening to his specific professional plan Iman felt she had been moving like a feather in the wind.

The more she contemplated her future job, the more uncomfortable sensation she had for work to develop this deadly weapon. Was it justified to build another bomb with the potential to destroy so many human lives? It might sooner or later be used. Iman had not devoted much time to religion these last years, but her Roman Catholic roots still raised sometimes troublesome scruples.

But perhaps it was the other way around. Perhaps this weapon was needed to secure peace, to maintain the equilibrium between competing nations? Pakistan had demonstrated its nuclear potential anyway, this country was not bowing before the West. They had even threatened their long-time enemy, neighbouring India. Why did only the big players have rights to play this game and put sanctions on others?

Moreover, this was not her job. There were numerous diplomatic ways of dealing with such issues. She would leave it up to guys like Jerry. They had made sure that no red buttons had ever been pressed during the Cold War and they would manage in the 21st century too.

"It seems you went astray," said Jerry breaking into her reverie.

"Yes, a bit, sorry… 'To secure peace is to prepare for war'. Do you know Metallica's 'Don't tread on me'?'

"Sure, it's a paraphrase of _Si vis pacem, para bellum_ , 'If you want peace, prepare for war.' Ancient Latin adage," he said.

Iman poked at the last cold chips with her fork.

"It would be just fine if people didn't tread on each other,' she said. "But I am fed up with this war stuff! Tell me a joke, Jerry, can you?"

"Okay, we can switch to jokes, but you start!"

He was content as well to change the course of this conversation. Enough of wars and weapons this evening.

"Sure, but be warned–I'm going to throw you a tough one!" said Iman and a sneaky smile appeared on her face. Let's check his sense of fun about quantum physics.

"Heisenberg is driving a car, and a policeman stops him. 'Do you know how fast you were driving, sir?' asks the policeman. 'No, but I know exactly where I am!' Heisenberg answers content with himself. 'You were doing 41 in a 33 zone!' shouts the policeman. Heisenberg answers 'Oh no, now I am lost, you asshole!'"

Jerry burst out laughing. "Good! Uncertainty!"

Damn, he got it! Iman had expected the need to clarify the Heisenberg's formula to see an understanding smile on his face.  
 _He's not that bad_ , she thought. _And well, just my type_. _Friendly grey eyes and this wavy brown hair_.

Jerry was still giggling. "But the speed limit in the UK is 30, to be precise," he said.

Iman shrugged. "I don't have a driving licence, I can always call Heisenberg. It's your turn!"

 _I wonder what she'll do to me for this_ , thought Jerry taking a deep breath.

"The general's wife says 'If women ruled the world, there would be no wars.'" The first sentence made Iman grin. "'That's true,' the general replies nodding. 'Wars require strategy and logic.'"

The smile disappeared within a fraction of a second.

"You're an awful male chauvinist!" Iman tried to kick his leg under the table, but he had been expecting that and moved backwards. She frowned grabbing her jacket and backpack.

"I'm leaving!" she said.

Jerry also got up and put his jacket on. "Hey, it was only a joke! Please accept my sincere apologies!"

"Yeah, how would you appease me?"

"What about a drink?"

"Okay, but I will destroy you first!" Heisenberg had not worked properly, so she'd go for a hardcore one.

"All the mathematical functions are sitting in a lecture hall. A professor comes in and yells 'I will integrate all of you!' In response to this threat they rush in a panic to leave, only one remains calm in his place. 'Hey, buddy, save yourself!' shouts his colleague. But the cool one answers 'I'm not afraid, I'm e-to-the-x!'"

This time she laughed her head off not because of the joke–Jerry's consternation was a true victory.

####

They wandered around the West End for a while and Iman moaned with regret as they passed the theatres, operas and museums. Jerry was not  
fond of musicals, but he listened to her stories about 'The Music of The Night' and 'I Dreamed a Dream' with an unfeigned attention.

Their topics of conversation got lighter in a pub. The atmosphere was sweaty, so the two uppermost buttons of Iman's shirt had been unnecessary. She raised a toast to successful diplomacy–in all honesty–as her thoughts went to her future job. Just one small, sweet cocktail, she would not dare drink more, afraid she might let an unfortunate word out of her mouth. Thanks to Allah and Muhammad she would not have to drink alcohol in Pakistan.

As they had left the pub he suggested accompanying her back home. They took the tube from Piccadilly Circus and came up to the surface at Waterloo station. It was raining, so Iman unfolded a small umbrella which hardly covered two people. She clung to Jerry's his arm while they stepped through the quiet streets of the South Bank. It was getting colder in the spring shower, but Jerry's closeness warmed her up. It took only a few minutes to arrive at the three-storey house on Theed Street, where the small studio apartment they had rented for her was located.  
Imanwas going to say a kind 'thanks for a nice evening' when Jerry kissed her. Not that surprising, so she neither turned her face nor pushed him away. With mutual satisfaction, the kiss was continued and their tongues began a cautious exploration.

Jerry embraced her and pull her closer, but the backpack and umbrella hampered his actions. He placed his free hand on her hip and felt her fingers climbing on his chest. Iman started to stroke the back of his neck, which encouraged him to slip his hand under her jacket and shirt to reach the bare skin just above the belt of her jeans.

Her kiss, her touch and warmth of her silky skin made him yearn to discover other curved places of her body. Damn, he would move his hand higher if not for the stupid backpack strap. In view of her responses, his hope for an invitation was exponentially growing with every second. Something else was growing and making his pants tight, but she stopped the kiss and lowered her head.

"Jerry, I…" she said embarrassed and unsure what to do. She had had no time to think about boys or kisses lately, but now the gentle touch of his hand had woken up a familiar excitement. Her heartbeat was rushing, nipples freezing, and the thrill went down her belly. Should she invite him upstairs? And what then, sex while watching her every word and speaking only English in bed?

"I know, I know… We have just met, you are tired, it's past 11 and you need to read those papers," he said.

"Yes, I really do," she answered, but realised it had not sounded convincing.

"Okay, so here I am going," he said.

Actually, he didn't move, only gazed at her, smiling. Despite an evident hesitancy, she kept her hands lying on his chest.

 _So this is the diplomacy–one statement in his mouth and still his hand under my shirt_ _?_ thought Iman. Jerry's fingers continued the gentle caress of the skin at her waistline, teasing and promising more pleasurable moments which might come straight away.

"You're going?" she asked. "And you're not taking your hand with you?"

"Oh, I'd have forgotten, thanks!" He chuckled, gave her the umbrella and moved two steps backwards. "Bye!" he waived enjoying the view of the dilemma on her face. He went further back and turned around. "Bye!"

She stomped her foot before a second had passed. "Come back here, you Jerry!" Iman Zubedah or not, she was still a woman.

Jerry laughed, returning in the blink of an eye and was awarded a fiery kiss. The umbrella had moved to the side, but none of them minded the raindrops soaking their hair and clothes.

"Hey, we're getting cold and wet here!" Iman said. "Would you like to drink a hot tea upstairs?"

"I'm not sure,' he said. "Do you have milk?"

"No, I do not. I hate tea with milk! I have only honey and lemon."

"Too bad," he said and got a punch in reply.

"You try my patience, make your choice!" Iman paraphrased one of her favourite Phantom's quotes digging out the keys from a backpack pocket. Was Jerry tactfully prepared for an adventure like this or would she need to search for the pack of condoms buried somewhere in the bathroom? They shouldn't be expired yet.

"Okay, I'll be happy with something hot and sweet!" said Jerry.

"You're going to be a damn good diplomat, you know?" she said as they climbed the stairs to reach the last floor.

"Looks like I'm doing fine!" He grinned, adoring the view of her back below the backpack. What a lovely shape in the jeans he would tear from her in a moment!

After a merry battle with bags, wet outer clothes, shoelaces and socks they jumped into the bed to warm up. He took care of the buttons of her shirt, the belt and zipper of her jeans and she was paying him back with fervour. Jerry had expected to see a plain cotton underwear on Iman, but was surprised to find some lacy ones instead. As things heated with each move, touch and kiss, she would not let him spend expendable minutes adoring her lingerie. Soon every last bit of clothing got thrown away from the bed.

"I'm from a higher floor!" she said pushing him to lay down on his back and taking a strategic position on his thighs. Jerry did not mind the view and the free access to her breasts. They shared the pleasant discovery as she started her ride. Slowly at first, then gasping with delight she increased the pace to adjust the rhythm to the natural frequency of her body. She reached the resonance point in a short time and only when a long and loud 'Oh' emerged from her mouth did she realise she had been starving for this.

Then she enjoyed Jerry's actions as he rolled over her. His purrs sounded like cat's voice, and the fast oscillating moves of his hips prolonged her pleasure. They calmed down with soft kisses, then Jerry's head rested on her belly while she brushed his hair with her fingers.

This spontaneous adventure was followed by two mugs of hot tea drunk in bed along with a pack of butter cookies which Iman discovered in her kitchenette. A more savoury fashion of the experiment's second stage multiplied their satisfaction. But then Iman kicked Jerry out of her place in the middle of the night. She would not have minded cuddling up to his body for a while longer, but what if she talked in her sleep? Not to mention an empty fridge which would embarrass her in the morning.

####

The next morning came much sooner than Iman would have wished. After numerous 5-minute-long snoozes set on her alarm clock, she opened her eyes to see  
it was half past seven. The harsh reality of having to reach Vauxhall in less than an hour sunk in.

"Fuck!" she shouted. Didn't they ever sleep in this circus?

Curse it, she had even started to swear in English! While fighting simultaneously with clothes and a hairbrush she realised not a single coffee grain had been left in her kitchen. She blurted out several dirty words in Krav–Jerry had distracted her from the quick shopping trip at the nearest Sainsbury's local store she had planned for the evening before.

Iman smirked reminiscing about the pleasurable distraction–it was worth it, even though she needed to rush to the Waterloo station hoping to grab at least a Starbuck coffee-to-go in a horrible paper cup with plastic cover. The view of the nearby St. Johns church tower reminded her it was Sunday. So this must be her punishment for sinning on Saturday night and working on Sunday morning. Maybe the bloody McDonald's would be open? A vending machine would be an ultimate resort.

She sped almost as fast as a jogger she had passed along Whittlesey Street, where rows of monotonous short brick houses had been built centuries ago. She had always wondered why people did such stupid morning runs. Instead, they should sleep in warm beds or celebrate Sunday morning by eating a breakfast at leisure. Whenever she had attended any fitness class, it was in the evening, so she got her body dead tired and just throw herself into a bed afterwards.

But her exceptional run this morning was fully justified. She had a serious reason to hurry, a soaring urge to run, a thirst for coffee!


End file.
